


Write Me Down Easy

by lucyraebrown



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Annoying Students, BEWARE PETER, Blanket Forts, Books, Bookstores, M/M, They are so cute, a novel within a novel, bilbo is pining for release, bilbo teaches english and literature to high schoolers, english teacher!bilbo, famous author!thorin, fili and kili are dogs!, mega fluffiness, they both have bad taste, thorin wants nothing more than to share his life with another, thorin writes victorian era novels, thorin’s company is mostly bilbo’s students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyraebrown/pseuds/lucyraebrown
Summary: Bilbo Baggins, a simple man with a wish for something more than his life teaching high school English, is obsessed with a famous author by the pen-name Oakenshield. Although he knows the future is dim for his chances of finding out about the man behind his favorite book, it's reassuring to know someone has the same thoughts about the world.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Original Male Character(s), Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 94
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, you guys! Welcome to Write Me Down Easy, a little fic I conjured up this month. This one has Bilbo wishing to meet his favorite author, our beloved Thorin, who has explained the clear meaning of life in his book, Western Starlight. Both this work and Western Starlight are my own creations and I cannot wait to see where this story goes! I have plans for a chance meeting and some happy endings, so stay tuned. Thanks for checking out the story -- I love, love, LOVE creating new worlds for Thorin and Bilbo to live in.

_Tell me a story._

_In this century, and moment, of mania,_

_Tell me a story._

_Make it a story of great distances, and starlight._

_The name of the story will be Time,_

_But you must not pronounce its name._

_Tell me a story of deep delight._

_\- Robert Penn Warren_

Bilbo Baggins was a morning person before he began teaching these sodding fucking high school kids.

He used to pride himself on being able-bodied and fit, happy to wake before the sun rose. He used to read and watch the beginning of the day come to life, curled up with a nice cup of hot earl gray and his beloved cat. Forgoing ever owning an alarm clock, he worked more hours but made so, _so_ much more out of the day. The days were his; the mornings, in particular, he was satisfied to say he owned, but the afternoon and evening had their own routines that kept him busy. Comfortable. Comfortable with his books, his pet, and his bachelorhood. 

Satisfied, maybe, away from these bloody teenagers, this life, this devotion to time and work and schedule.

Happy, yes, when his mother was more than a pile of bones in the ground. Happy when he was cleaning up what his father had been doing for decades, spending hours pondering over Bungo's thoughts, his notes, and his character charts, wondering _just_ how wired his father had to have been to think of a story like _that!_

If people had their lives controlled by a ticking bedside clock, one that could be both forwarded _and_ reversed, why couldn't time be the same?

The blaring trill of his phone awoke Bilbo from a dream he didn't remember, and he groaned, stuffing his nose as far as possible into his pillow. Gray clouds rose around his London flat, a soft, calming rainshower upon the tin roof of the old Victorian. It was the perfect day, mused the teacher as he gave up ignoring time and rolled out of the bed, to stay home and read. Work on his books. Read some more Oakenshield, that one novel he did many years ago about the young girl who was in love with the earth, and not the boy who was in love with her face. Sometimes, when he was feeling his lowest and missing his mother, Bilbo imagined himself being that girl. 

Ignoring the people of society and escaping to the fields behind an old house, sometime in the 1800s when England was yellow and green with growth. Dreaming of love, but being respected as a woman could dream in that time. Finding men annoying and balls and parties obscure. Poking around in Father's study in search of pencils with an eraser still intact. Drawing the flowers from the windows, and then drawing the boy, but finding the eraser necessary after deciding the boy was as much a burden as a classroom full of gum-chewers and girls whose favorite author was John Green.

Bilbo grabbed that copy of Oakenshield's _Western Starlight_ from his bookshelf on the way out of the flat, tucking it underneath his arm. The rain was cool and fresh on his face, a gentle wind making the trees spray more droplets onto the shoulders of his gray coat. He tucked into the garage overhang and slipped into his little car, setting the book on the passenger seat along with his schoolbags. He wouldn't get a chance to read it during the day, too busy with lecturing and grading and writing referrals to the principal in response to a student's crude language, but it didn't matter, as long as it was with him. A reminder of what he wanted out of life. A hope for something better, even if that something better was no better than being a girl in a Victorian novel, written by a grown man whom he would never meet.

Bilbo resonated that ever meeting his favorite author, a certain Thorin Durin, pen-named Oakenshield, was as much of a dreamy desire as walking out of his job breaking the spine of his thick teaching contract while he stormed down the hallway. For some reason, he grouped the two into the same melting pot -- work and Oakenshield, Oakenshield and work. 

Of course, one was the devil on his shoulder, offering him a lackluster paycheck and a budget enough for a cheap Penguin set of _The Illiad._ The other was the angel; he often thought of Oakenshield himself looking someone angelic, pale in the face but thoughtful, a man engrossed in his thoughts as much as Bilbo himself. The photograph on the back of each of the hardcover novels that the teacher kept in his classroom in hopes of a certain student asking to borrow revealed the author to be nothing more than a simple, handsome man. He was mid-forties, a few years Bilbo's senior. He had short brown hair and often wore glasses in the interviews he had watched on his laptop hundreds of times over, appearing Oxford-y in a dignified way. He spoke with a London accent and was quiet, didn't talk much about his own life but expressed gleefully about his novels.

Bilbo deemed the entire makeup of his beloved author was very nonsensical. It was as if Oakenshield, his words spread onto mass-media pages in popular bookstores, was too good to be true. Most things were too good to be true for a middle-aged English teacher in rainy London, but Oakenshield was an entire enigma, an idea. Someone who needed figuring out, pieced together. Bilbo had been attempting to pick his brain over email and social media for years now, wondering about certain lines and dialogue to perhaps create conversation, but he had never gotten a response. The fans on the chats that he was a part of thought him crazed for wanting to know who Oakenshield _was_ , the man behind the characters. Behind Willoughby Greenhold's blond curls and Eliot Cramper's freckled face. Behind the stories he had quartered together so thoughtfully, the tales that held Bilbo in the night like a thick blanket.

With a cowering glare at the sky, making no notion to stop raining, Bilbo strutted into the old English school, his boots squeaking against the cheap tile. He clutched his book, his bag, his coffee. He adjusted his glasses and bowed to the secretary who had always been more like a friend than a co-worker to him and descended the hallway to his classroom.

He hoped for a moment of solitude before 5 pm where he could look back at that one line in _Western Starlight_ and wonder just how Greenhold did it.

How did she shut out the rest of the rotating, evolving world even as she was forced to be a critical part of it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo teaches his class a lesson about Warren and smoking on school property.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome! Thank you for all of the sweet messages on the first chapter of this little story. Here's a little more -- I want to delve into our Bagginshield one of these chapters, but for now, I'm setting the stage. Enjoy!

"Alright, everyone open their textbooks and take a look at page 560," The teacher boomed, sliding onto his desk. Bilbo loved what he taught; he just didn't love these kids. These kids, who were public-school dropouts at best, just didn't share his knack for words, didn't get the overall message. Teachers are tasked with giving growing minds stories that are supposed to be remembered throughout their lives; these students didn't remember the last thing he said, let alone what they had for breakfast.

It was the sad reality of the modern-day education system. Bilbo spent six hours a day in this classroom, and by the god (although he often thought he was kidding himself blind) he wanted this job. He had wanted to be a teacher since he was old enough to know it was an option; his father had been a professor at a local London college and taught linguistics to grad students whose sole interest in life was words. It was difficult for someone as Bungo's son to think these students cared so little for what came out of their mouths, more interested in what was going in them. It pained him to see the school this way, but he hoped he was helping. In the least, he offered a book club after school centered around Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell, and perhaps it had been by chance the incentive of free tea and snacks, he had four members. 

"Can you guys settle for a second? Seriously?" Raising an eyebrow, Bilbo directed his attention to the corner of the classroom, where a group of boys and a single girl were doing some sort of routine, the flame from a cigarette lighter touching the blunt end of a fag. "This isn't home! I'm not having another fire drill! Put that out!"

Setting his copy of Warren's poems down, the teacher slipped off of his desk and stormed to the corner, the students bickering about wanting a fire drill as long as it would get them out of literature class. Their focus was currently on American poetry and theatre, a chosen break from the required month of Shakespeare. Bilbo loved Warren; he loved even more cheating the curriculum in order to rediscover themes about love and longing. 

"Ori, Bofur, hallway, now," He pointed, ushering a finger to the door. The reminder of causing yet another accidental fire drill, and a visit from the marshall blaming him for not noticing smoke quicker, was bringing his temper out. Mr. Baggins was normally the type of teacher the students wanted to have for required English; he was gentle and kind and didn't speak up, didn't yell much, didn't assign much. He just liked to talk, and talk he would if it made these kids an ounce smarter. "Fili, you stay here. Gloin, go wash your hands and ask the nurse for some burn cream."

The boys skittered away past the heavy oak doors, murmuring to themselves about lighters and paperback novels (that was the last thing that had caused a fire, much to the teacher's dismay). Pleased the classroom hadn't filled with smoke, Bilbo sighed and motioned for his brightest student, a young, brown-skinned brunette named Emmaline, to watch the class. She was a pipsqueak and never uttered a remark about books or words, but her grades were brilliant and her work ethic smart. She wouldn't disappoint him as he slipped out of the classroom and leaned against the wall, motioning with a finger for the two culprits to come his way. 

"We've had this talk before," He began, watching the students' faces freeze up. Ori and Bofur were good kids; they got lackluster grades and seriously had a stick (or a lighter, or a textbook) up to their asses, but Bilbo knew them to be sweet. Troubled, possibly lost, but sweet. Hanging out with the wrong group at the wrong time; they did better together, which is why the teacher chose to scold them as a pair. "You know my class is a safe space. You know I let you do  _whatever it is_ you're doing, as long as you're getting your work done. Why are you disrespecting me?"

"Mr. Baggins, I-" Ori shot his head down into his hoodie, clutching his hands into the pocket. Bofur shook his head in disappointment; he hadn't meant for his best friend to feel inferior. "I apologize."

"That's quite alright," Bilbo smiled weakly, patting his shoulder. "I know who's idea it was." Turning his cheek, the teacher looked down onto Bofur with eyes burning fire red. "Bofur, care to explain?"

"It was a fluke of the hand, Mr. Baggins!" Expression growing, the brunette pulled a cigarette from his pocket and passed it over. Bilbo looked down at it with disgust; he had quit smoking some years before and found it challenging to be in the presence of the weapon, unlit or not. "I got it from my cousin, I swear! We was trying to see if it would light..."

"It's a cigarette, it will light," Shaking his hand with the devil wrapped around his fingers, Bilbo made a motion with his hands towards the bathroom. "No more smoking in my classroom. This is the last time. Ori, you know better, Bofur, you don't. But I expect more out of you two. Go wash that off your hands, you reek of tobacco."

"Yes, Mr. Baggins." Chiming an apology, the boys headed into the stalls towards the sinks. Bilbo made his way back into the classroom, thankful it hadn't gone down in flames. A few of the students were on their phones, but most of them were chatting amongst each other, ignoring the open pages of  _True Love_ on their desks. He had chosen the poem because it was the most relatable of Warren's work, hoping (why was he hoping?) that the students would at least like it enough to talk about it. 

He jumped back onto the surface of his old wooden desk, the classroom quieting down as the teacher pulled his book out and cleared his throat. "We are going to read this, aye? For once, we're going to be quiet."

With the problem solved and the four talkative boys scolded and scrubbed clean, the class finally gave their attention over. Bilbo sighed and read. He read clearly and emotionally, lacing his words, using the accents. The students tapped on their desks and yawned. Ori and Bofur snuck back in at the wedding stanza and took their seats. Fili texted. Gloin was nursing a finger bandage. The rest of the students, bless him for not knowing their names, followed along to the words but made no attempts to  _listen._ But as long as he had their silence and their attention, Bilbo knew it might turn out to be a decent hour of class.

The fire alarm woke him from his lecture, the book flying from his hands. The chatter came back as chairs slid across the floor and students filed out of the classroom, leaving it fruitless and smelling (again, yes) of tobacco smoke.

God rest his weary soul.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo introduces Ori to his favorite author. Oakenshield makes a soul-crushing announcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I love bringing this story to you guys. I am having so much fun. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and your weekend; it is supposed to be warm and sunny here in Indiana, and I can't wait have coffee and introduce you to Mister T. Oakenshield himself! 
> 
> Also, if you are enjoying the story, I am extremely active on tumblr! My user is shealwaystakesitblack. I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapters over there as well :)

The day was finally coming to a close.

The sunset had begun and so did the ringing of the last bell. Bilbo's final period, a class of just a handful of children who he technically babysat, not taught, flew from their desks and out of the door, grasping backpacks and homework and chatting amongst themselves about the football match that evening. Their school, Miller Academy, was small compared to some of the surrounding London schools. It held about 400 students from ages 14 to 18, old enough to know better than to act like children but too young to be proper, maturing adults as he wished they could be. Most of his students he had in multiple classes during the day; the others he remembered from former years of failure and repetition.

It really wasn't all that bad. The school was lovely and the teachers were kind, middle-aged women and retired professors who took their jobs just as seriously as Bilbo himself. Most of the students were, in fact, intelligent; they simply had lost interest somewhere between primary and secondary school. It was the sixth form's job to prepare students for the outside world, and so Bilbo never deemed a student a failure in his class. The outside world was hard and not everyone was going to leave his class to study literature or creative writing. All he could do was try.

Sometimes trying came hard, and he loved to complain. The teachers found him amusing at best, as much as he complained about his students. He had a few star students to brag about to them as well, but he spent more hours a day during their shared lunches lamenting than boasting. Regardless, a paycheck and a fair life came out of his teachership at Miller -- he had just wished it had been a different circumstance when he took the job five years ago.

Bilbo was packing his back and the fraying copy of _ Western Starlight  _ into his bag when he noticed a student still in his classroom, poking into his personal space from the corner of the room with wide blue eyes. Ori, whom he had scolded earlier, tended to hang around before his brothers came to retrieve him. He had two that the teacher knew of; Dori, who was almost Bilbo's own age and came to pick up the little redhead from school, and Nori, whom he had taught in his first year at Miller. Dori was quiet and understanding, the opposite of his younger brothers. Bilbo remembers Nori being as much of a troublemaker as Ori and Bofur combined, added with the satisfaction that it was the teacher's first year and left him vulnerable to verbal attack. Regardless, he held a soft spot for the mellower version of Nori, his littlest brother, the ridiculously shy Ori. 

"Waiting for your brother?" Mr. Baggins asked gently as he flicked the switch to his desk lamp off, and made a note to inform the next-door teacher that the smoke on the air vent was an accident, not his students' faults. He'd take the blame, as he always did.

"Actually, umm..." Rising from his seat, the redhead approached, bowing his head shyly before Bilbo's desk. He shuffled his shoes before reaching into his backpack and revealing, surprisingly, a ripped copy of  _ Emma _ . "I was wondering if you had anything else like this. And this is yours."

Passing the book over, Bilbo smiled wide. He eyed the inside cover, his sharpie scrawl reading "Baggins, Room 202", and underneath, the list of students who had checked it out of the classroom. Bilbo operated a small classroom library out of love for lending books out to troubled teenagers, books that were either banned or lost in circulation in the main school library. "You read  _ Emma?  _ Did you like it?"

Ori nodded, showing a little grin. "It was great. My brothers pick on me for being a bookworm outside of school, but my mother always liked reading. They say I get it from her, Mr. Baggins."

Raising an eyebrow, Bilbo pressed the book back into the old shelf and turned around, looking for his classroom copy of  _ Western Starlight.  _ It was always a good day when a student was interested in the same type of period dramas that his favorite author wrote, especially when it was Oakenshield himself. "That is absolutely lovely to hear, Ori. I get my love for reading and teaching from my parents as well; they loved Jane Austen almost as much as I do. Are you familiar with the author Oakenshield?" 

The redhead pondered the name for a second, then raised a finger. "He wrote  _ The Red Lady's Rose,  _ right?"

One of Oakenshield's more famous stories,  _ The Red Lady's Rose,  _ told the tale of a widowed Englishman who moves to America in search of a career in railroad engineering. His dapper senses keep him from landing the job he so desperately wants, but he later meets a woman, the daughter of a famous rail company, and they fall in love. It's a brilliant tale, as Bilbo thinks all of Oakenshield's novels are; this own, however, hit the shelves with the intention to be a money-grabber of divorced ladies and grandmothers on holiday. 

"He did! I consider him my favorite author; it's not so often you come across someone who writes like Austen and Bronte, especially a modern one. How he manages to describe so clearly the Victorian age as a middle-aged Londoner such as myself keeps me up at night." Deciding the book must have been lost between moving classrooms last spring, Bilbo tucked into his leather bag. The beloved copy sprung out with dog-eared pages, coffee stains, and folds, but it would do. "Here we are. This is  _ Western Starlight,  _ it's my favorite of his. It's about a young girl who is too busy falling in love with words and people that she completely misses the point; a handsome boy wishes to marry her, and he can't win her heart because she's just so goddamn stubborn."

Finding himself bickering on once again, Bilbo handed the book over to Ori, tapping the cover. "At least, I think she's stubborn. Be a good lad and bring it back once you're done, alright?"

"Thanks, Mr. Baggins." Giving a real smile, Ori got back into his bag and made sure the book was safe, between his binders and folders. "Sorry for, well, being a prick today in your class. I really didn't think it would light."

"That's fine, you learned your lesson," Mused the teacher, still elated one of his deemed hopeless students now carried his favorite book. He held the door open for Ori, and the two made their way down the hall together, stopping at the doors. The school was on the side of a busy London street, but it was in walking distance of Bilbo's favorite cafe. He was looking forward to coffee and a scone while he graded his essays. "Let me know if you like it. And, well, we could use someone else in our Jane Austen club, if you're interested."

Ori looked sick at the thought. "Um, well... I would have to ask Dori. He doesn't like me staying after school; he thinks it's always suspension, but that was Nori's thing, not mine."

"Yes, well, it would be good for you, I think. Have a nice weekend." Watching the old truck of his brother's pull up, Bilbo held the door, watching as the freckled ginger ran down the bend. He knew Ori would eventually give in; he rarely had someone like him who was admittedly having a crisis with revealing his love for reading. It was sad to watch, but he hoped the books he lent out would settle his desires. 

It's well after dinner when Bilbo pulls out his laptop, immediately flocking to the chat thread he was a part of; a tight-knit family of Oakenshield lovers from around the globe, all sharing their speculations, excitement, and love about his stories. Most of the members knew their favorite curator of conversation wouldn't log in until it was past nine in England, but that didn't keep them abiding time. It seemed there was news to share when he noticed the messages pouring in, his laptop chiming a happy alert that his group was alive, and frantically, Bilbo logged on and brought his desires to life. 

A few of the responses made him chuckle.

_ M_Oakenshield3: Where the fuck is the English teacher?!! _

_ Peter_Willoughby: he's probably crying about the news _

_ M_Oakenshield3: Does he know? He has to know! _

_ redladyrosesss: Guys, he has a job unlike some of y'all.  _

Brushing his hair into a lackluster ponytail after taking a sip of his warm tea, Bilbo giggled to himself and slid into the thread. He loved his friends.

_ BilboBBaggins: Know what about what news? _

_ Peter_Willoughby: YOU DON'T KNOW?!!!!! _

_ BilboBBaggins: ...I was at work all day. Don't tell me he died. _

_ redladyrosesss: GO CHECK THE WEBSITE!! _

_ M_Oakenshield3: Bilbo it's so exciting! You are going to be so excited! _

_ BilboBBaggins: Give me a moment. _

Rising from the sofa to readjust his laptop onto his stomach, Bilbo curled into his softest blanket and set his tea aside, glasses reflecting the chat in front of him. He opened a tab to the Oakenshield website, where the author himself occasionally posted about his awards, collector's editions, and book signings. Most of his events were in New York, where Bilbo and his friends suspected he was being a hermit in a lavish Village apartment.

He almost cried at the news.

_On August 9th, 2021, author and creator Oakenshield will be releasing a new novel entitled Magnolia Sky. It is a spin-off of his beloved classic, Western Starlight. Acclaimed to be written in the same universe as his novel was written, the book will be followed by a short tour of the states and Europe. Pre-orders begin on June 25th, 2021, at 12am; we hope you enjoy the new book._

_ BilboBBaggins: ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?! _

_ BilboBBaggins: Holy shit _

_ BilboBBaggins: I could have pissed my pants, guys. _

Drowning out the chat, Bilbo couldn't help the grin that passed over his face and rose his lips to his earlobes. A new novel, by Oakenshield himself! He hadn't released anything since some ten years ago, the fans decided he was married and retired since he had finished his last story, the third novel of a series of Victorian crime-age tales. Not to mention it was a spin-off of his favorite book. He couldn't wait to tell Ori.

He couldn't wait to tell the world.

He couldn't wait to be first in line for the signing, bouncing on his heels as he watched Oakenshield sign his leather bounds with a keen smile and those dark brown eyes, shielded by that choppy chocolate hair. It was all he had wished for, and more, to meet his idol. His savior. The angel that had descended from the Heavens himself after his mother had passed, scooping him up in strong arms and cradling him close as a babe to a breast. He had to be there.

He would be there if it meant dying for it.

He couldn't wait to meet T. Oakenshield.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo meets up with an old friend, and meets the famous Oakenshield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I meant to post these two new chapters last evening, but my mental state was off and I didn't feel like finishing. I broke the paper laminator at work yesterday trying to save a customer's poster and I'm terrified I'm going to get in some massive trouble for it -- oops. Sometimes customer service is hard. Regardless, this chapter and the next to follow were a joy to write -- I hope you enjoy them!
> 
> Also, I decided to dedicate this chapter to the lovely @dollydee as she cheered me up yesterday by spamming me on tumblr and over here on AO3! Thank you for your support :)

School let out mid-May, when the sun was hot and blistering and the students were running around the corridor instead of obeying the teachers. Bilbo loved the end of the school year; it was a reminder that another successful cycle had gone by, and these kids, who he deemed hopeless in August, had learned something. Even if most of them had learned the proper fire drill procedure, it was something he could vouch for. 

His students were graduating onto the next year, and it was something to celebrate for. He poured a glass of scotch on that last evening and shredded his tests and essays from the week, watching the red pen markings and coffee stains disappear to nothing but white slush. Bilbo poured himself another shot, toasted to the beginning of summer; the summer where he was going to meet Oakenshield.

It may have been holiday break, but the English teacher still held his book club twice a week at the local library. Ori had since joined them. He was shy and didn't talk much, choosing to listen to Bilbo or one of the girls read and discuss, but he made excellent company. He was always the first to arrive, in case Bilbo had a new book for him to borrow, and the last to leave, asking questions about the novel or just opting for small talk. Bofur was gone staying with his cousin in the mountains, and Dori and Nori had left him to his books, the teacher learned, and so he was finally fitting into the perfect tea partner for Bilbo. Before club, the two of them huddled in the library kitchen and drank green tea, and just talked about Austen. 

It was one of Bilbo's favorite parts of the week, besides waking up early and reading, no work pressing down onto his shoulders. He re-read all of Oakenshield's books in a week's time, making notes, compiling a list of questions he so desperately needed to be answered. Before he opened a new door to his future post-meeting-Oakenshield, though, Bilbo needed to close off another one. It was time to let the past go; it was time to let Peter succumb. 

It was a sunny afternoon when Bilbo went to see his old friend. Peter, who was in their chat room, had been fellow company for many years to the English teacher. He had landed the dream job early on, after university. A teaching position in Madrid, talking about old literature and words and languages to English students abroad. It paid an immense salary and allowed Peter enough time off that he was able to write his own books; he had published two novels by his 30's and was working on his third, a rendition of Emily Dickinson.

He was doing everything right, everything that Bilbo wanted out of life. Alas, they had stayed close, jealously aside, and when Peter came to London to visit his family, he and Bilbo always made dinner plans to discuss their love for Oakenshield. 

"Ori, did you get my text?" Waving his hand outside of the library, Bilbo found Ori waiting for his arrival, his book in hand and messenger bag slung over his shoulder, ready to spend the evening discussing  _ Persuasion _ . The redhead turned and crooked an eyebrow, noticing the teacher clad in a dress shirt and trousers, long golden curls tied back in a bun with his finer pair of glasses resting on his nose. "I moved the club to Thursday; I have plans tonight."

"You have a date," The boy pointed out, smirking brilliantly. "What's his name?"

"That's funny for you to just assume I'm a homosexual," Bilbo prodded, touching his finger to Ori's chest. The boy giggled. The teacher reddened and groaned out a long breath he didn't know he was holding in. "Okay, it's not a date. But I am gay."

"I know." Waving his hands around for Dori to come to the front of the library, Ori looked down at his feet before raising his head again in a kind smile. "I mean, I didn't know, but... Bofur and I had a long-lasting suspicion. Good for you, Mr. Baggins!"

"It has its pros and cons, I suppose." Bilbo followed his student down the long marble staircase, waving goodbye as he turned in the direction of the pub where he and Peter had reservations. Reservations -- it was starting to sound like a date, wasn't it? "Bye, Ori! I'll see you Thursday. Don't forget to finish  _ Persuasion,  _ I want to talk about it!"

Peter looked just as handsome as Bilbo remembered. His friend was tall and dapper; he had caramel skin, mixed Spanish and English, and shoulder-length black hair that was pulled into a ponytail. His eyes always spoke of the travels and experiences he'd collected; they were as green as the countryside, and shining, as if he was just as excited to see Bilbo as Bilbo was to see him. Situation (and attraction) aside, Bilbo was glad he could finally see Peter in the flesh and not the computer screen.

"I missed you, B!" Peter exclaimed once inside the restaurant, pulling the smaller brunette into a wide hug. Bilbo embraced back and pecked Peter's cheek, warming at the affection. He felt happy again; his best friend always knew how to cheer him up. "How are you?"

"Fine! I just got back from the library, we had a short meeting for my Austen club," He explained, following the waitress as she brought the two men to a booth in the corner of the trendy pub. "I cannot believe we are finally talking about the new Oakenshield novel; it's been impossible to  _ not  _ leak by excitement to everyone at the school."

"Speaking of which, I found something for you back home!" Reaching into his bag, the man fished out a bundle wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to Bilbo; it smelled like Peter, a rich musk with hints of lavender soap. The teacher spent a moment staring down at the gift; he felt unworthy to be touching something that would later mean nothing. "Open it, stupid."

"I will," He chuckled, unfolding the paper and revealing a copy of  _ Western Starlight.  _ It was a collector's leatherbound book, with gold lettering and Oakenshield's name in fine cursive; he had seen it before on the internet but figured it was too costly to add to his collection of copies of the same novel. "That's... Pete! You didn't have to! It's beautiful."

The man beamed wide and ordered two beers from the pretty waitress. His own face was redder than blood; Bilbo liked his gift! "You're welcome."

"You are so fucking sweet," said Bilbo, flipping through the crisp pages. "It had to have cost you a fortune!"

"Nothing too good for you now, is it, love?" He replied gently, patting the teacher's hand. The brunette flinched, his hand stilling as Peter stroked his thumb across his skin, his touch gentle and sweet, yet passionate. "I missed you... home is nowhere close when we're just talking over text." 

"Peter, honey..." Bilbo's voice warned, squeezing their hands together before breaking away. "I told you last time that we are an awful couple."

"You feel the same way!" He pouted, crossing his arms like a child demanding a piece of candy or a cookie from the jar. The two of them always had trouble when they spoke about their feelings; books and hobbies, work talk, came easy, but talking about "them" was like being in primary school again. "You feel the same exact way and yet you deny that we can make it work together."

Raising an eyebrow, the teacher looked his friend straight on and pursed his lips together. He adored Peter, he would never dismiss that he did. Peter was sweet, and caring, and thoughtful. He grew the flowers from the seeds that Bilbo planted. But the years spent dancing around each other, being together but  _ not _ , living on other sides of the same playing card, was not what Bilbo wanted. Peter was used to being away from the people that he loved, and dominating the relationship; Bilbo wanted his lover  _ here,  _ as an equal. 

They had been playing this game since university.

"No, we don't. I didn't come here to talk about this," He explained, tapping the cover of his new book. "We work better together when we're talking about him, not us."

"You are a fucking menace, B! God, you ignore every aspect of our relationship." Almost rising from his seat, Peter shot Bilbo a look of pure, cold steel. Well, Bilbo did come to this dinner to break up with him, but he didn't expect it to end like this, so short into their conversation. He'd come to talk about Oakenshield; he thought it would make Peter happy. "You are too far into this. Into  _ him." _

Guiding his eyes to the novel, Peter spat in disgust. "Yes, I love him too. But I love you, and I love him because of how much  _ you  _ love him. Why is it so hard for you to let go for a moment, Bilbo?"

"I'm so sorry, dear heart," His eyes welling, the English teacher sighed, pleading with his most childish expression. "You are wonderful. You deserve more than me. More than... well, more than what I make myself out to be. But these books are what keeps me together, you know? Please forgive me."

The man sighed desperately, taking Bilbo's hand into his. "I know. I honor that; you commit fully. I just wish you could commit to me, and we could be together again."

"You know I want that, Pete," He smiled weakly, brushing the tears away around his eyelids. "You know I really do. But not now. Not when you live so far away. Not when our lives are like this, all business."

"You have the summer off, don't you?" Tugging his phone from his pocket, Peter brushed his long hair back and opened the calendar. "You could come to Madrid for a few days. As friends, if that's what you want."

Madrid was beautiful, and Peter made him feel all of those things. Like when Eliot Cramper saw Willoughby in the window, her white dress fluttering in the wind. A warm summer day, the grass green and the birds aflight. But he had to remember one detail about that scene; they never married, regardless of the kiss they shared that day, down by the lake, bare feet in the cool water. He was middle-aged and ready to start something; his friend, bless his heart, cared nothing for the future when he could have happiness  _ now,  _ and forget a future where he was married in a Spanish bungalow, with many books, a cat...

God, he couldn't go to Madrid, could he? Not when they were like this.

"I wish I could, Peter, seriously. But what you have there is so special, with your books and your friends. I would feel like I was intruding."

"You aren't intruding. I want you to come, after you meet Oakenshield, of course." His green eyes showed exactly what laid ahead; Madrid and lush grass, tropical summer, and a hot, sticky night with Peter in bed. How a man could dream. "Tell me you'll think about it?"

"I'll think about it," Bilbo lied, faking his most charming smile.

Little did Peter know, Bilbo had his own eventuality laying ahead of him. In a week's time, he would be standing in line, a copy of  _ Western Starlight  _ in his arms, a basket of chocolates, which he set on the table, and his most loyal, non-fancy dress shoes. Oakenshield sat in front of him, being his book-cover self; beautiful, charming. Brown eyes, brown hair, black suit, green tie. 

Bilbo couldn't believe he was doing this.

"Nice to meet you," He greeted apprehensively, toes digging into his socks and the wood floors of the old bookshop below. He had been to this shop before, in Notting Hill. It smelled of old leather and paper and was tight, just small enough to make the meeting between him and his idol seem special. The tickets were expensive, but nothing was worth more than this moment. Not even gold could pay, all of the silver and diamonds in the universe. "I'm Bilbo. B-Bilbo Baggins."

"Mr. Baggins." Oakenshield reached out a hand, his voice like a cat's purr. It was a deep baritone, like the cellars in an old house. It sent chills down Bilbo's spine. It sounded exciting and full, music like the novel in his hands. His palm was soft; Bilbo shook back slowly, his breath catching. "Should I make the book out to you?"

Clicking his pen, Oakenshield motioned to a fresh copy of  _ Magnolia Sky,  _ which a preppy-looking agent had pulled from a stack behind him. Bilbo nodded, his voice breaking as he held out his own copy of  _ Western Starlight.  _

"Did you mean have Willoughby and Eliot break up at the end with the intention of them getting back together in the new book?" He blurted out, watching the author's eyes grow dim. The other fans were waiting impatiently; time stood still for Bilbo, whose questions were coming like a flood from his mouth. "I mean, that's what I thought, but it's not my book. However, I think I would have done it like that. I find that sometimes when I'm reading other-"

"If you wrote it? I wrote it," Oakenshield frowned, setting his pen next to the pile of novels. "Is something wrong with the way I wrote it?"

"No, no no no, it's my favorite book, I just- never mind," He stuttered, waving his hands around. "Those chocolates are for you!"

"No, I really want to know," Oakenshield peered over Bilbo's shoulder, as he was near a foot taller than the short teacher, at his long line of signings. It was already 5 pm. Outloud, he announced, "Do any of you have an issue with the way I had Willoughby and Eliot break-up in  _ Western Starlight _ ?"

There was a murmur of chatter behind the English teacher; he grew small and wished he hadn't spoken up. He was so used to critique, to question, as it was his job to do so. He hadn't considered that it may be an offense to suggest what he would have done differently; it was just a recommendation, he loved the book.

"I didn't think so," He hummed, sitting farther back into his chair. Oakenshield passed over the copy to Bilbo, turning his nose up, revealing that chiseled chin and brilliant white teeth. "Thank you for coming. I didn't need the criticism, though. On your way."

Why was this man such a fucking  _ dick _ ?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Oakenshield have a run-in after the signing.

That evening, Bilbo Baggins sat at the hotel bar nursing a glass of wine, his new copy of  _ Magnolia Sky  _ perched in his hands. He may have been beyond furious that his favorite author was a massive prick, with those daunting smirks and flashing eyes, those fancy clothes, but it wasn't going to stop him from appreciating good literature. He had been waiting ten years for this book; in the life of a secondary-level teacher, that was a century of a decade. 

He began his first descent into the novel with lackluster optimism, his face growing in delight the further he made it into the first chapter. Again, Oakenshield was only the man behind the words. The words themselves were as sweet and tender as usual, like honey over the warm corn muffins his mother used to make for Sunday dinner.

_ Eliot Cramper was enchanted to find that his daughters had grown to be just as beautiful as their mother. The smallest and most delicate of the Cramper girls was Ruby, freckled and red like her father, but with hazel-green eyes and a renewed, refreshing permanent smile upon her face. Her mother had passed upon to her the fine, womanly features of the prettiest girls -- she was porcelain on a high shelf, far away from pondering eyes of the village boys she captivated on her walk to the schoolhouse. Eliot had already received three marriage proposals for his daughter, and by the age of seventeen, Ruby Cramper was married under pink roses and ivy of the local church where her parents had eloped decades ago.  _

_ The second daughter in line for marriage was Violet, who wore her mother's silk-white hair and eyes like lupine, as she was named for the color. She was tall and slender and delighted the fantasies of the older men once she was old enough to be an item in Starlight. It was said that she refused each of their requests and promised not to marry until her parents were rich and comfortable. The folks liked to call the Miss Violet the name of a girl they once knew; the girl who had brought Eliot to his knees in the summer of 1825, a certain Miss Willoughby.  _

To bring Willoughby back so strongly, yet so mundane! Bilbo was hooked; he poked the tip of his tongue out as he turned the white pages, crisp and newly-bound paper flying across his fingertips. He had meant to save the book for his summer holiday back home to the countryside, but he was instead going to finish it this evening, while it was fresh in his mind and heart. 

The English teacher ordered a second wine and moved to the armchair, pulling his feet up when the hostess of the hotel was far away enough not to scold him. The sun had passed under the horizon and slept as he read, the time slowing like glue but a world opening inside of Bilbo's head. He never noticed the time, or the sounds of the world, when he read deeply. So deeply, in fact, he missed the fact that he was being watched. Admired, really, by chocolate brown eyes, from the bar.

"Mister Baggins?" The world broke and Bilbo raised his head, still adjusting to the light as he closed the book abruptly. A tall man was watching him across the room, nursing a beer in his hands. Straightening his glasses, the brunette squinted, then to his surprise found the author of the book on his lap walking in his direction. "I hope I am not interrupting anything... important."

Bilbo had never been one to consider authors celebrities, but seeing Oakenshield in comfortable clothes -- a t-shirt and jeans, cardigan swung over his shoulder -- made the statement so much more real. No one would think Bilbo famous, anyway, if he was an author himself; wordy people seem to get swept under the same category as minor-league sports players and childhood models. Easy to praise, difficult to do much more than worship from afar. 

But by the heavens, Oakenshield  _ remembered  _ and  _ recognized  _ him! He was among the hundreds this afternoon, waiting in line for a signing, a chance to say a few words and ask a question or two. Had he made that much of an impact, telling the author off? Certainly not.

"Not interrupting anything," He sighed, standing to his feet. "I was just on my way out, Mr. Oakenshield." Perhaps it was the luck of the wine, but Bilbo was feeling bored of the author already, standing there so casual, so human. 

"Are you sure?" Grasping for his arm, the man stopped himself an inch before he reached Bilbo's sweater. He blinked a few times, before realizing he was being less-than-professional and backed away. "Sorry. I just wanted to ask you if you were enjoying  _ Magnolia Sky.  _ I didn't expect to find a reader at this hotel, especially at this hour _." _

Turned around, the teacher nodded slowly. "It's excellent."

Oakenshield's chest seemed to fall in relief. "That is good to hear. So good to hear. Thank you, Mr. Baggins."

"You seem... relieved to hear that. Do you not agree with me?" Showing the novel in his hands, Bilbo turned a few pages in and found his highlighted portion. "I liked this line so much, I might use it for my lecture in August. The one where Ruby tells her mother that her father is still in love with Willoughby, even if the only love left between them is sharing the property at the Greenhold estate."

Oakenshield nodded and peered over his shoulder to look at the penmanship Bilbo had written in. " _ Use in lesson two...  _ you must be a teacher, then. Is that what you apply in your classes? My books?"

"Not exactly," Bilbo chuckled, forgetting the afternoon after he realized that Oakenshield's walls were up so tight, he couldn't be much more than a prick. Surrounded by the press and the cameras, it would be difficult for anyone to publish a book under anything more than a pen name. He was... surprisingly friendly, with the people away. More like the man Bilbo expected him to be. "I teach what I'm assigned to. But I have a student who shares my love for your work, and so we tend to talk about it after classes. I meant to ask if it's not too much..."

Oakenshield cleared his throat, stroking a few hairs from his smooth forehead. "Would you have a drink with me, Mr. Baggins?"

"Excuse me?" Take those statements of applause he was just thinking back; who was this creep? Bilbo knew the danger of being a single man infused with loneliness and desire from his university days; you did not, under any circumstance, have a drink with a handsome man, no, an author... his favorite at that, if you wanted to be home before nightfall the following night. "You called me out in front of a thousand fans this afternoon, refused to sign my copy of  _ Western Starlight,  _ and now you're asking me to have a drink with you? I don't find that acceptable at all, Mr. Oakenshield."

"I see. I am sorry for the way I disrespected you, it was not... intended." Ushering to the scene around him, the dapper author squeezed his temples quickly before faking a smile. "I would love to sign your book now if you'd like."

"No, that's quite alright," Deciding now was a good time to close off his heart, Bilbo grabbed his things and pursed his lips. Oakenshield in the flesh was so gorgeous, so comely... he played like a scratched record, broken words followed by soft scratching, too soft to make out the melody. The scraped record was broken, perhaps, but it was difficult to make an apology to a piece of vinyl. It was just as difficult to accept an apology from someone who had hurt his pride just hours prior. "It was nice to meet you, really. But I'm not one for gifts and small-talk. Good night, Mr. Oakenshield."

Fluttering the pages of  _ Magnolia Sky  _ in his hands as he strutted to the elevator, Bilbo eyed the notes. For a second, he debated turning around. His mind was chock-full of questions; he'd wished for the moment to pick Oakenshield's brain since he was a child! Imagine what he could do with the answers to those mysteries! But no, he had to be a man. He had to stand up for what was right; regardless of how much he  _ adored  _ the idea of getting to know that handsome author, he wasn't going to have his heart softened by autographs and free wine. 

Free wine and sweet nothings, followed by a romp in the bedsheets, though?

That sounded like something that would be keeping the English teacher awake for a week, in the least. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo get a fresh start on their introductions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hope you like this one -- I loved writing it and the very bad sonnet. It is quite sunny here in Indiana, it feels like spring! Even if it's not warm where you live, this is my reminder to you to get some fresh air! Thank you for all of the lovely reads and comments too, argh! I LOVE YOU GUYS!

Thorin knew from the second that he offended Mr. Baggins that he was a fucking idiot.

He had never seen someone so gorgeous in his life. Yes, he saw elegant men and women every second of every day -- he was famous, he was grouped with other people more beautiful than the sunlight and the sea. But the looks of an English teacher, slightly stocky in brown trousers, a white t-shirt, a black jean jacket, and loafers, with those golden curls and blue-gray eyes? That was the man he liked.

That was the man he wanted to love. But he just needed to figure out how to crack him; how to erase the walls of a sharp-tongued, witty professor into the softness he knew hid underneath. Being an author, he knew people better than most. He made them up every day, and yet it was obvious that Baggins was deep, like a well full of water. He was able to outtalk a well-known writer at a book signing and _still_ refuse him under the impact of wine and seduction -- most men didn't do that. Most men weren't Mr. Baggins, the English teacher he had known for less than a day's time.

Cracking him down, brick by brick was going to take some coaxing. He decided to start with breakfast; a harmless basket of fruit and sweets sent up to his hotel room, a single note attached. But what would he say? 

_"You're gorgeous and I am so sorry I offended you."_

_"You are prettier than Willoughby Greenhold's spirit."_

_"You're hot, please call me when you get the chance."_

No, Mr. Baggins would want integrity. He wasn't afraid of people like Thorin was. He would want the author to lace a strict, proper apology between words of adoration. It wasn't often that he came across someone -- no, actually, he'd _never_ come across someone like him. Real humans were scary, love was scary... words were harmless. 

Real humans brought him chocolates in a pink box with a white bow to a proper book signing and asked questions while shaking his hand.

Poetry. That's what he would compose to show Mr. Baggins how he felt.

***

Bilbo had stayed up until the purple glow was coming off of the horizon, bathing his hotel room in a gentle haze of light. He had chosen to rent a room because of the excuse of not wanting to drive home when he knew he was going to drink, but honestly, he had just wished for a moment of silence. He, himself, and Oakenshield's new book. No neighbors, no screaming tea kettles. 

No Peter texting him about how it went, demanding details, sending heart emoticons. That was definitely a plus of staying in a hotel; nobody knew where he was.

He fell into a deep sleep after finishing the novel. He decided it wasn't as good as the first story, his beloved _Western Starlight,_ but it was different. In a way, it was more mature. It showed Oakenshield's age and his talent, how it grew and how words changed. _Magnolia Sky_ was wonderful. Bilbo especially loved how he tied all of the loose knots together from the last book in the ending of the new one; it was as if he was closing the door to the past for good, allowing the characters a chance to live without interruption. 

It almost seemed as if Oakenshield was retiring. If that was the truth, well, Bilbo had a long, tiresome journey of self-healing in front of him.

It was well-past nine when the hotel door was knocked on. Bilbo rolled out of the comfortable covers (hotel rooms always, for some odd reason, had the best duvets and pillows) and wrapped himself in his robe. He shuffled towards the door and pulled it open, blearily staring down at a maid and a wicker basket full of fresh fruits, scones, muffins, and individually wrapped cookies. The outside of the basket was also woven delicately with a few red roses, fresh and bright against the apples' blood-red skin. _Did I pay extra to have breakfast delivered?_

"Am I paying for this now, or should I when I check out?" He wondered obliviously, his fingers lacing through the beautiful pastries. They were of obvious delivery fresh this morning -- the blueberry scones and the chocolate muffins were still warm, and the cookies soft. Even the oranges were a bright ocherous shade as if they'd been picked off the tree minutes before. 

"Already paid for, Mr. Baggins," The maid shrugged, on her merry way down the hallway. She left him in the doorway with the basket, his gray eyes warmly eyeing the muffins. Past the roses and the fruits, however, he saw a note attached, a single white card in black cursive penmanship. 

"Wait! Ma'am," Poking his head out, Bilbo eyed the maid. "Could I get a tea kettle for this?"

Opening the basket was like unwrapping a puppy on Christmas morning, being a young child with the yearning for a best friend no human could match. It was difficult to muster it was all his. All of the sweets were elegant and expensive; he figured the hotel knew, somehow, that he would be easy to gratify into ordering _more._ For him to sign the guestbook and stay another night, just to get a second helping of their delicious treats.

But the hotel wasn't all that polished, and there was a note underneath the tiny cheesecake. Cocking an eyebrow, Bilbo expected the bill, but the note was handwritten and comely, with a heart drawn on the outside.

He peeked into it and encountered a sonnet. 

_My sweet mentor, you inspire me to write._

_I love the way you quarrel and repudiate me,_

_Invading my mind this day and through the night,_

_Always musing about our offhand meeting._

_Bless me to compare you to a silver spoon_

_You feed the heart and mind of your host._

_As the sun heats the sugary peaches of June,_

_And our summertime has the finest future._

_How do I admire you? Let me count the ways._

_I love your spirit, so enchanting and golden._

_Thinking of your wisdom and whit fills my day._

_My yearning for you is like a long holiday._

_Now I must away with a withering heart,_

_Remember my great declarations whilst we're apart._

_Thorin Durin, your not-so-secret admirer :)_

_Please call me when you get the chance._

Bilbo wasn't quite sure what to think. The sonnet was... ominous. In a way, it was gorgeous. It was Shakespearan and sounded like something a teenage boy would write to his mother for English class, just because it was assigned as a final grade. But it was still sparse -- Oakenshield really must have an editor look over all of his work before publishing; this was measly. This sonnet was nothing special. Nothing to fawn over, like the fruit basket. 

"You little rascal," The teacher felt his lips quirk up, and he read over it again. So that was his name. "Thorin. That's... Mister T. Oakenshield. You are a cheap date. But I kind of like it."

Once he gathered up his things into his duffel bag, did the chores (he always figured the housemaids were underpaid and didn't really want to do what they claimed was "their pleasure"), Bilbo took his basket and luggage downstairs, a bright smile on his face. He felt giddy as if his shoulders were weightless. All Thorin had to do was send him a meer gift and a splendid little note, and he was feeling the opposite. 

Thorin was a moron and an absolute skeleton of a man inside, wasn't he? And Bilbo took each of those descriptions to heart; he was feeling the same way about himself as he handed over his room key, tapping on the front desk as the receptionist used his credit card. 

"Could I ask you to look something up for me?" Said Bilbo quietly, watching the television as it showed the queen and her advisers speaking in from of a large crowd. Hotels always showcased the most blatant parts of London; British royalty this, Big Ben that. In true honesty, no British people actually dig that shit. "The gentleman, no, _the person_ who sent me this fruit basket didn't leave his number."

"Give me just a moment." As she went through her computer files, the teacher looked ahead. It was almost lunchtime, and the businessmen were now out of the lobby. It was quiet, just the sounds of the maid carts and the elevator dinging to fill his ears. It almost reminded him of the school in the morning; the occasional teacher on the phone down the hallway the closest turbulence. He loved school mornings, and he couldn't wait to tell Ori that he had killed Oakenshield's attitude, diminishing it to a goopy, heart-struck man! "Thorin Durin?"

"That's the one. The note he left asked for me to call him in order to order another basket, and so I wanted to verify before I departed."

"Sure. It looks like his phone number is here," The lady said, writing it down on the back of a business card and handing it over to the teacher, who held it close in his hands. He would call, eventually, but first, to ensure himself that this was _real,_ he'd shoot Oakenshield a text. Something simple, nothing romantic. No sonnets. "You're all set to check out. Have a wonderful afternoon."

"You too," Bilbo chimed, neglecting the bell hopper who carried his luggage to the taxi to open his mobile phone. "Just going home," He reminded the driver, waving a twenty-dollar bill and grinning. "Near Bethnal Green, on Canrobert."

The taxi driver sped away and Bilbo's mind was scrambling. Sure, he was just going to say hello, but what would he _say?_ Should he use the author's real name, now that he knew it (and it was lovely, absolutely fitting), or his pen name? Was Mr. Oakenshield on a plane? This was his last tour stop for his little book signings, but Bilbo wasn't sure where he lived. The questions he had! Yesterday, the millions of questions on his brain were about the books. Now, he wanted to know _aspects._

What did Thorin like to do, besides reading? He knew he was interested in men; that part was obvious, and it sent a chill down his spine, to his tailbone. Maybe below, if he was being honest with himself. Had he been married at any point? Did he write because he loved it, or because he was good at it? Was he rich and famous or working undercover, his pen-name collecting the money for someone else? What color looked best on him? Who was his favorite character in each of his books. Bilbo guessed it was Eliot Cramper, but he demanded to know for sure.

Once the host returned to his quaint little house, fed the cat, and showered, Bilbo settled into his armchair and flicked on his phone once again. Peter had texted him wondering about how the meet-and-greet went and forwarded him a photograph of Thorin signing his copy. For some odd reason, he was jealous of Peter for getting that _close_ to the author.

Oh god, was he getting protective over this man already? They barely knew each other; plus, Thorin had been a dick to him! A dick that apologized with fruit baskets, and sweets, and sonnets...

He brought out the phone number, and typed it into the contact, watching the text field come up and the keyboard at his fingertips. Stretching out pleasantly in his sunny home, Bilbo settled and composed a short message to Oakenshield. 

_Bilbo: Hi Thorin. This is Bilbo Baggins, from the book signing. I just wanted to say thank you for the sweets -- they were delicious. If this message finds you well, I wish you a good afternoon._

A reply came some hours later, as soon as he was tucking himself into bed and flicking the lamp. He had spent a good fraction of the afternoon watching the screen of his mobile, hoping for something, anything. The sunlight came and went, and he had almost given up hope that the phone number was correct all along. Wearily, the teacher blinked an eyelid open and ran his fingertips along the words as he read the message in his inbox. 

_Thorin: Hello there! Nice to see your reply, Bilbo. I am glad you enjoyed your sweets and your fruits._ _Did you make it home alright? I assume you're from London, am I correct?_

_Bilbo: Yes thank you! I live near Bethnal Green._

_Thorin: I live near Kilburn. My apologies for the late reply, I just got home from the office._

Oh, so he _did_ live here. Minutes away from Bilbo, how lovely.

_Bilbo: No problem. Your sonnet sucked._

_Thorin: >:0! What, no it didn't. _

_Bilbo: Sorry, mate, it did. But I liked it anyway?_

_Thorin: You are impossible to impress. But you're very sweet. Is there any possibility you would be interested in dinner on Friday night? You pick, since I know I will make the wrong decision._

_Bilbo: Dinner sounds lovely._

_Thorin: Splendid, I'll pick you up. Bring your copy of Western Starlight, I forgot to sign it :) Sleep well, Mr. Baggins._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo speak over the phone about their lives and upcoming date, and flashback to a visit to Thorin's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, woah, I get to change the rating of this story! Tread with caution... nah, it's not all that bad. Just cute. Enjoy.

Bilbo Baggins is falling. 

The world around him is white and flush with pleasure. 

_Oh yes, right there._

Above his lithe body, stripped naked against comfortable hotel sheets, is a burly man with thick, dark chest chair, shaved brown locks beading sweat against his neck. He's huffing and smiling as he rocks into Bilbo's sweet spot, nibbling his bottom lip, fluttering out praise and contentment.

Bilbo feels himself falling into the bed, and presses a hand upon Thorin's shoulder, squeezing. "Harder. H-Harder, Thorin!"

"Your wish is my command, dear heart," The man smirks, and brings his hips against Bilbo's thighs, slicking with sweat and perspiration. The hotel room is slowly shifting to his bedroom, his corner of paradise, with a bookcase full of books and the drawer underneath hiding lubricant and condoms. "God," Thorin purred, facing the ceiling in the widest grin. "I _love_ fucking you!"

"Please fuck me harder!" Squeaked the smaller man, holding Thorin's muscular shoulders. And then he touched it spot on; Bilbo's prostate was flush with application, the white stars came, and he let loose with a scream. "Oh, oh GOD! THORIN!"

"I love you, I love you," The author repeated, kissing his chest and holding him close as he rocked in slower now, watching for Bilbo if he slipped into exhaustion. "I love you, I'm close, I love you so much."

"I love you," The teacher hiccupped, tears running down his cheeks. Thorin came inside of him hard, his throat roaring with pleasure as he settled on Bilbo's chest, his nose tucked into his neck. Bilbo stroked his hair, smiling at the wetness and the feeling of fullness inside of his body. "Oh Thorin, I love you more, honey."

"I love you more," The man sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. He adjusted his thigh and slipped out of his partner, cock hanging loose and staining the sheets. Sleepily, he rose from the mattress and came back with a dishcloth, cleaning Bilbo's chest and ass and then his own legs. "Time to sleep, dear heart."

"Time to sleep," He agreed, curling into the soft blankets. The author took their laundry and hiked it into the hamper, flicking off the lamp as he hugged Bilbo against his chest, petting his skin and breathing slowly. "I love you, Bilbo. Time to sleep."

Time to wake up.

Bilbo awoke to his empty bed and a jolt that sent a wave of nausea down to his ass. That was the fifth wet dream he'd had since he met Thorin, and it was only Friday. They had known each other for around a week but had spent a good fraction of each morning and evening texting about nonsense. Thorin expressed his dislike for early mornings; he was a night-owl, so they devised a good schedule to text when they knew the other would be awake. 

Bilbo absolutely adored talking to him. Thorin was sharp-tongued and often shared disgruntled emojis when Bilbo criticized him, but it was all in good fun. He was soft and liked the attention, while Bilbo enjoyed learning about his writing process and the things he liked to do in his spare time. The author was kind when he wasn't under the blistering eye of the public and often sent good morning texts with little hearts. He'd even allowed Bilbo to make the dinner reservation -- that of which he was still unsure of where to go for their date this evening. 

His phone rang just as he was climbing out of the shower, washing away the sin stains between his thighs. Bilbo scrubbed until he felt less guilty, scrubbed again for good measure, and then fixed himself up with cologne and a hair trim by their date. He had a busy day besides dinner that evening, and he'd never pass up a sunny morning doing nothing. 

"Good morning, Bilbo," Thorin purred over the phone as Bilbo set it on speaker, and went to the kitchen to start the kettle. It sounded as if the writer had just woken up from the dead; his throat was cloudy and sleep-spelled, and it was incredibly arousing, if not slightly hilarious. "How did you sleep?"

"Oh, fine," He lied to himself, grabbing the canister of the silver needle tea and dishing it out into a filter. Willoughby jumped to the dining table and mewed, demanding her breakfast before hearing a bark over the line, and scurrying off into the living room. Bilbo shot the telephone a one-over and heard the woof again. "Do you have a dog?"

Thorin chortled deeply. "Two, actually. Russian sight hounds. They are demanding breakfast."

"Those are _big,"_ The teacher grimaced, imagining the large, boisterous puppies running around his tiny London cottage. All of the crocks and dishes -- ruined! "I have a cat. She is also commanding me for breakfast."

"What's her name?"

Brushing back his messy curls, Bilbo giggled to himself. Well, it was near time he admitted how far his obsession with Oakenshield had gone. "Willoughby."

Thorin howled in laughter, causing the brunette to spill the tea leaves into his water. Dejectedly, he decided he was going to drink that anyways -- silver needle cost double of what he usually bought when it came to morning tea. "Dammit Thorin, you made me spill my tea."

"I'm sorry, dear heart," He chuckled, rummaging around in his own kitchen by the sound of metal and dog kibble. "Oh, your poor tea," Thorin ruminated sarcastically. "What kind do you like to have in the morning?"

"Right now?" Staring down at his cup, the man tried to fish some of the leaves out and set them on a paper towel to dry. "Silver needle, but it's very expensive. I got it for Christmas from a coworker. Something tells me you're a coffee drinker."

"Obsessively, yes. I don't write past 3 pm if I don't have my cup of coffee," He explained over the line, more barking and howling making Bilbo chuckle. It was gratifying to imagine the all-handsome, all-prestigious Oakenshield getting barked at by messy old hounds, and trying to feed them while in boxers and an old t-shirt. "I like tea fine and all, but I don't write my best without caffeine. Where would you like to have dinner tonight, then?"

Oops. Somewhere between the wet dream and now, he'd met to decide on a restaurant, but so far had no ideas about where it would be proper for a writer and a teacher to dine without arguing loudly, and commencing to snog afterwords. Was pizza too cheap and silly? "There's that really good Italian place between Weaver's Field and the Tesco, the-"

"The E Pellicci?" Thorin answered, instantly knowing the neighborhood. "That's the one with the remarkably tiny menus that everyone thinks needs bulldozed, right?"

Bilbo winced silently. He'd known it as a tiny, hole-in-the-wall, but the menu was good and the people were nice. "Sorry. I'll pick something-"

"No, god, I _love_ that place!" The author grinned in his words, happily expressing his excitement for dinner there. "You have excellent taste. There really isn't a need for a short menu if you really know how Italian food should taste, goodness, like..."

"Like it totally captures the food in five dishes, so why do we need more? And you can add smoked salmon to anything."

"Why would you ever _not_ add a side of smoked salmon to the full English when they ask?"

"Always add salmon. Always," Thorin agreed in his baritone, happy voice. It made Bilbo's entire self tremble; it felt good to make the author so content since he was always so grim with moodiness. His personality only really came out in his books, and it seemed like the more Bilbo read them, he saw the ways that Thorin put himself in the characters. "What do you drink with your salmon? I noticed you liked white wine."

Bilbo smiled at the thought of their meeting; honestly, he felt terrible for treating Thorin the way that he did, considering he knew how _sweet_ the author was! When he wasn't being a dick, he was a real gentleman. "I love wine. Don't like beer."

"That's okay," Thorin hummed, shuffling around on the phone. "Tell them to take an old Italian wine for our table when you make the reservation. I have to go to work, dear heart, but I will see you tonight."

"Okay," Bilbo chimed back, his voice lowering in sadness. He imagined Thorin at his desk, coffee in hand, writing the Victorian novels he loved so much, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and it instantly made his mood better. He would take the afternoon and give his all to the book club, and by then it would be time for their date. "Bye..."

"Oh, darling, I didn't mean to dismiss so quickly," The author said thoughtfully, words like honey in hot tea, soothing Bilbo's sore throat. He _really_ needed to get ahold of himself; once, he had lost himself to Peter's caring nature, allowing the other man to do all the work because he figured he liked it, not that he felt obligated. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"No, just used to talking long hours with you," The teacher chuckled, gliding down into his couch and pulling out his laptop. It had been about a week since he'd idled in his group chat; he didn't truly have a reason to _discuss_ Oakenshield anymore, since he was on the other end of the phone, but it was always lovely to catch up. "Enjoy the office. I'll text you my address."

"Okay, dear heart," Thorin replied slowly. "See you."

"See you." With that, the line cut, and Bilbo has been left to himself again. All alone in his house (besides, Willoughby, of course), feeling smaller than usual. The past week had been an exciting adventure; it was like climbing a beautiful mountain and being in shape while you did so, unlike Peter, who was Mt. Everest. He and Thorin had found how incredibly compatible they were; it was scary how well they connected regardless of their opposing tempers. 

On Tuesday, the author had asked him to come over to his office, which was a little nook in an office park down by the greens. Thorin admitted he'd chosen the spot because the wide window in the upstairs corridor allowed him a view of the park; he saw interactions and read people, which then gave him fresh approaches for his characters. When he was at home, he got too distracted to write; going to the office, even if it was a mile down the street, felt like a real job. Bilbo scolded him for saying being an author _wasn't_ a real job, because goddamn, it was, but Thorin admitted his parents had different plans and had wanted exactly what Bilbo was doing.

An English teacher, with a classroom full of students and a bookshelf of Victorian novels. 

It came up during a cup of coffee that Bilbo had wanted what Thorin had; writing in a quiet office in front of London's busy-ness, sipping tea, going on book tours, and speaking about his characters. He wanted to be a homebody and enjoy his mornings and write all afternoon, sometimes vacationing, sometimes having his husband rub his feet while he read on a beach. Thorin had giggled at that and promised he'd never write a novel good enough to have his feet massaged by someone so beautiful as Bilbo, and the two of them fell into a pleasant afternoon of crimson cheeks and longing glimpses. 

After their coffee, Thorin left to ask his agent some questions about ordering in Chinese food, and Bilbo poked a look around the office, his smile growing wider. He pulled out a test copy of _Western Starlight,_ on the bottom of the bookshelf, settled in Thorin's desk chair, and peeled the cover open. When the author returned, he found the teacher reading aloud to himself, his golden curls orange in the setting sun. His shoes were off and he was dozing while muttering the sentences, looking outright gorgeous in the face of someone who _wrote_ the definition of gorgeous. The office room was quiet, and the two men made eye contact as soon as Bilbo finished one of the last chapters in the book. 

"Your eyes are a different color," Bilbo muttered, furrowing his eyebrow. Thorin raised his chin and smiled just enough to seem mysterious, and he kneeled to where Bilbo was resting his calves, giving him the ability to study his pupils. "I have to say, I'm stumped. Do you wear special contacts to see?"

Thorin shook his head and squeezed Bilbo's hand under the desk. "I... well, I told you how I feel about the press. The audience makes me anxious. I use a pen name, you know why, because I don't like attention. I don't like when people call me out, or ask about my books, because that defeats the point of being an author." He explained, twirling his thumbs. "Anyways, I wear brown contacts in public. Oakenshield has brown eyes. So this," Waving a hand over his face, Thorin grinned wide. "Is the real color. The blue, I mean. Thorin has blue eyes."

"Thorin has gorgeous eyes," The teacher giggled, touching his thumb across the bridge of Thorin's nose. The older man's eyes were big and a bright, sparkling blue, like a sapphire or a pile of fresh blueberries. Studying his idol's face was like looking at a Greek statue; he was _so_ handsome, so chiseled, sharp cheekbones and plump rosy lips and those eyes... "Am I the first fan to see them?"

"If you call yourself a fan again, I will put the contacts back in," Thorin sniggered, rising back to his feet after the warm spell of affection left his stomach. "You are so much more than that and you know it, Bilbo. But yes, you are the first, besides my family and my colleagues."

"Because..." The teacher ruminated, spinning around in the chair.

"What do you mean, 'because'? I. Like. You," He drew out, his hands at his hips. "I thought the sonnet was pretty straightforward."

"It was, but it was just awful," Bilbo chuckled, snatching Thorin's hands and dropping them to his own hips. The author blinked, watching where his palms fell and then relaxed, his eyes falling into a gentle blink. "I am pretty sure you've never touched another man and it's adorable."

"It- I have too!" Thorin turned red down to his chest, the buttons of his gray cardigan loosened as Bilbo pried the top one open. "I'm not a virgin."

"Oh, sweetheart, you are." Pressing a kiss to his neck, then his earlobe, and down to his lips, Bilbo smirked across his mouth and nibbled softly. Thorin chortled in a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. That just caused the teacher to laugh harder, hugging the author tightly. "Calm the fuck down, and kiss me. You will learn. I promise, my dear."

"I trust you, dear heart," Thorin rolled his eyes and dove in, their lips connecting. It was awkward, and he was leaning across his own desk, the books and pens falling to the floor, but Bilbo was smiling, his agent was making calls in the chamber over, and the sun was setting on London's skyline. "Does this make you mine?"

"Patience," Bilbo cautioned, wagging his finger as they undertook each other's mouths. "We still have dinner on Friday."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin go on a dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly off to me for some reason. I have so many ideas for the future chapters but I just had throw down some things about Thorin and how he treats he and Bilbo's relationship. Regardless of how much of a mess it is, enjoy!
> 
> Also, I think I am going to record a bookshelf tour this weekend if anyone is interested. I am going to school to be an English teacher (surprise, I'm sure you already guessed that!) and I think it would be so much fun to talk about my book collection! If so, it'll attach a link of the video on the next chapter's notes.

Stupid men are Bilbo Baggins' weakness.

Childish men, foolish men, men who have no trace of what they're doing in a relationship make his very essence swell with joy. They make him grin and laugh and be goofy when he, Bilbo Baggins, is so  _ not goofy.  _ There's a saying about falling for stupid people somewhere, by Mark Twain.  _ Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience. _

The ironic thing is, Oakenshield, Thorin's fake "persona" that he plays with when he writes, is so  _ not stupid _ . He's the little king of Bilbo's fake kingdom, and Bilbo himself the brave knight, protecting the king and his works from the outside world of hate and big-time book reviews. His works are brilliant and warm and thoughtful. He's been Bilbo's savior for longer than he can remember, his medication, the meaning of life. Oakenshield is clever. 

He is not mindless like Thorin.

But Thorin Durin, the man underneath, the man behind the author, and Bilbo's undivided universe, is so much better.

That's because he's childish, and foolish, and has no clue what he's doing.

And Thorin is standing at his door in a full suit, turned around, squinting at the street signs, wondering if he's at the right address. His hair is gelled, and the sunset is purple and pink against his shadowy, tan skin. He's ruminating, humming impatiently when Bilbo cracks the door open and smiles wide.

"Are you missing a chromosome or something?" He prods, leaning against the doorway. Turning around on his heels, the author stutters, bowing in a messy curtesy and handing out a bouquet of white roses, pink daisies, and Queen Anne's Lace. Thorin blushes deep, pushing the flowers into his hands and smiling like the teacher has put the sun in the goddamn sky. "Oh my goodness, you are such a dunce. They're beautiful!"

"You look stunning," Thorin mutters, batting his eyelashes. Bilbo, a foot shorter than him, was clad in black trousers and a white ironed shirt, the collar unbuttoned as they were only going to a casual restaurant. "I lost my way, twice. I wasn't sure if this was the right house; you said you were a teacher, not a widowed scholar."

"It's a Victorian townhouse. It's really nothing; it's small inside!" He explained, popping the door open for Thorin to see. He ran to the kitchen to put the flowers into a vase, setting the blossoms on the dining table. "It  _ looks  _ like a Jane Austen cottage, yes, but-"

"I absolutely love it," Thorin grinned, tucking his hands behind his back as he glanced around the little bungalow. It was white-walled with dark wood floors and full of books and maps. There was no television in sight; only novels and littered teacups, and stacks of assignments he was contemplating using for his class. "It's very you. And seriously, you look... absolutely amazing, dear heart. Are you ready for dinner?"

"Yes, just let me grab my wallet-"

"No need. I've got the entire night," The author tucked his arm around Bilbo's waist, walking him out to the car. He was such a  _ gentleman,  _ holding the passenger door open to his older Jeep Liberty, making sure he had his seatbelt buckled before slipping into the driver's seat. "I meant to tell you," Thorin recalled as he made his way down the road. "I decided on a label for my sexuality."

"You... did? Is this the first time you've  _ ever  _ fancied a man, Thorin Durin?" Raising an eyebrow cheekily, Bilbo laughed as the author flushed, cheeks turning deep crimson. "You're hard to put a label on by words only. The books, they're incredibly nonbinary. I swear I have spent years trying to get a read on you."

"Oakenshield is asexual," He explained with his hands, doing a little motion around his heart. "I've never much found interest in my own personal relationships, considering putting love onto paper is my job, my  _ life.  _ I think most people pretty, but not enough to find myself attracted, or aroused, or... well, that's the label I've been living with. Thorin, however, finds you  _ extremely-" _

"You have told me countless times how you feel about me," The teacher chuckled, patting his knee. "You comely brute, you. Are you gay, then?"

"Just queer, actually," Thorin, feeling proud of himself, raised his shoulders, his kingly highness that Bilbo found in his writing coming out enough to make him smile. Okay, he was stupid, but at least he wasn't living in his own penname's persona. "I wanted to ask you how you found out that you were gay. Because, well... I don't really know at this point. I like you, I want to have sex with you, but I'm not so sure how I feel about  _ other people... _ "

"You are a moron and so, so forward." Bilbo glowed in arousal as he saw the restaurant, and noticed there weren't any other cars for them. Did Thorin rent out the entire restaurant just to impress, or was it really that unpopular of a dive bar? "But that's something that you have to explore yourself; it's not for me to decide. Your own journey can be impacted by me, but I don't want you to label yourself as something you're not entirely comfortable with, my sweet."

"I am comfortable with being yours, and taking you to dinner," Thorin smiled again like he was the happiest he had ever felt, and the couple strolled their way into the tiny restaurant. Bilbo had guessed correctly, this time; the little bar was completely empty, save for a single two-seated table with a glass of wine, another bundle of flowers, and candles around the plate-setting. "Do you like it, dear heart?"

The teacher shook in disbelief. He held his tongue and watched how the waiter, a stout redhead with a beard and thick eyebrows, grinned and led them to their little paradise. It was like being on an island surrounded by nothing but clear water like Thorin had planned a romantic getaway in the form of casual Italian food. It was amazing; he reasonably did not know that authors made this much money. "It's... just. Wow. Okay. How did you manage for them to let us have the entire place? I made the reservation this morning."

"The owners of this little place that you and I love so much are good family friends," The dark-haired man explained, waving the red-haired waiter over and introducing them. "This is Bombur, he is the son of the owner. He is the head chef and curator. And his uncle, Bifur, works with the wine. My father was very into Italian food, as you can tell."

Bilbo noticed that Thorin's eyes were still blue -- they must be the real deal, these men who run the restaurant. He smiled and shook Bombur's big hand, his eyes fluttering excitingly. Being with Thorin had been surprise-after-surprise, and it took a lot of the stress from his mind he usually had couped up in there. "Nice to meet you. I'm Bilbo."

"Oh, we have heard," Bombur laughed, pouring the two glasses of rich, white wine. The teacher raised an eyebrow, and Thorin blushed, flustered, situating his hands in his lap. "We're glad you like the restaurant so much! When Thorin mentioned it this morning, Bifur and I freaked the fuck out and canceled the whole evening. He has never,  _ ever,  _ been on a proper date!"

"I can tell!" Bilbo giggled and prodded at Bombur's shoulder when he watched Thorin gape in mock hysteria. "He showed up in a suit and brought me flowers like we were adolescents. It is absolutely adorable and I cannot believe he did all of this just for an inadequate teacher like me."

"I should never have done this," The author sighed into his hands, his friend snickering like a madman. Bombur grinned wide and requested that he take a few deep breaths with Bifur prepared their appetizer, and strolled away still chuckling at the idea of Thorin being in love. "Did you say it's  _ adorable?  _ That's so not what I was going for! And you're not inadequate, Bilbo!"

"Thorin Durin, you are precious and I seriously doubt every second of being on a date with you," Bilbo assured, pecking his cheek. "You are so charming! And such a dork!"

"I know, you've said it many times, I'm a child," He complained sarcastically, toasting their glasses together. "But you still like me?"

"I like you a hell of a lot more now that I know who's behind those genius books. He's impeccable and unbelievably naive." Clicking the glass, Bilbo sipped on the old Italian, pursing his lips in a smile. Thorin did the same, looking over the menu while Bilbo checked his phone. Peter hadn't texted him in a few days; he was probably in Madrid wishing Bilbo were there with him, fucking in bed... 

But Thorin was winning. And by god, he was  _ everything _ . An author, a dork, and a gentleman all in one package deal? Excellent.

"You're perfect," He ruminated, sloshing the wine together. Bombur returned with the smoked salmon, some shrimp, and garlic bread, kissing Thorin on the head when he blushed again, embarrassed this was all real. Bilbo smirked up to his ears, kissing the author across the tablecloth before digging into the delicious food. His heart was plentiful. "Absolutely perfect."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo mourn the loss of Bilbo's father, visit the bookstore, and make a blanket fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of feels. Proceed with a willing heart for fluffiness. 
> 
> Blanket fort Thorin and Bilbo for the lovely @LadyLaran <3

The sun was just rising on the skyline outside of the Shoreditch flat, and Bilbo Baggins was tucked back into a soft blanket, fluffing it to ensure maximum comfort. He was still in his pajamas, a pair of Thorin's boxers and a t-shirt over them, long enough that it went over the underwear and touched just above his knees. His golden curls were growing long enough for a short ponytail, and so he tucked the locks behind in a hair tie and nuzzled against the bed, attempting to melt into the covers. 

"Good morning, dear heart," Thorin sang softly as he made his way into the bedroom, careful not to open the curtains so the room stayed dark and cozy. In his hands was a plate of pancakes and a cup of tea, and he smiled pitifully as he handed them to his partner. Brushing back Bilbo's soft hair, he cooed, "It'll be alright."

"I know," The smaller man sniffled. Thorin swept the tears away with the back of his thumb and starting at cutting the pancakes into bite-sized pieces. All was quiet and still; the air hung low with grief, but the two men huddled in its vicinity. Sweeping some of the food up onto the fork, he touched it to Bilbo's lips and fed him. 

It is the anniversary of the day Bilbo's father took his own life, and they are mourning together. 

It had been four months since they made their relationship public. In that time frame, Bilbo had returned to teaching his new class and was loving it despite the fact that his students made noises when he came in Monday morning with a neck full of hickies. Thorin wasn't working on a new novel, instead opting to put a clear shape on his career as an author by revising his old works, and grading his boyfriend's essays when the students turned them in. They were smart little English pupils; he saw much of himself in their sharp, imaginative minds, and it kept him longing for the teaching that Bilbo was doing.

Thorin had found it charming that Bungo, Bilbo's father, had also been a teacher and a lover of words just as his son. The more he learned about Bilbo's parents and his mismatched little family of relatives, he saw how unique their love was, how lucky he was that Bilbo had even come into his world. His own parents, mother six-feet-under and father in a psychotic hospital in lower England, would have most likely neglected the two young men's involvement; they were traditional and had always taught Thorin, their eldest son, to marry a pretty woman and raise a pretty family. And write good, famous books, of course.

So far, he had fulfilled one of their expectations. 

"I was thinking that maybe we could go to the bookstore, if you wanted," Thorin offered, knowing it would be hard to get his lover out of bed when he was like this. Books always coaxed him from the real world, though, and the sunshine would dry his tears and the wind settles his broken heart. Bilbo had taken the day off; a Wednesday, when he would usually be teaching, to honor his father's death. It had been twenty-some years since his passing, but he was missed more every time, and besides, Thorin had scolded him for not taking a day off since the beginning of the school year. 

Bilbo, chewing, nodded his head in agreement. "I think he would like if we did that. You make excellent pancakes, my dear," Pecking his cheek, the teacher hugged his partner against his chest. He just loved and adored every inch of Mr. Thorin Durin, even if he was moody and difficult to live with. "Thank you for taking care of me. I love you."

"I love you more," Thorin smirked, capturing soft pink lips in a thoughtful kiss. He tasted like maple syrup, and it mixed well with the taste of strong coffee on his own lips. "You finish up here with those, and I'll draw a bath for our bookstore trip."

Thorin and Bilbo had been living together for close to a month. Once the rent was due for another year on the teacher's Victorian townhouse, Thorin had dropped the idea and threw Bilbo his keys. _"Won't be needing these anymore," He'd joked, removing the house key. "You are coming to live with me, in my castle."_

The author's flat was a bit of a castle, but it wasn't overwhelming. It was a gorgeous mid-century apartment with two levels, and many windows which looked out from six stories up to the city below. It was cozy and spacious and full of built-in bookcases, fluffy rugs, and advertisements from his book sales around the world. Bilbo had loved it the second he stepped into it, a week into their relationship. It was all he had ever wished to afford, but London was expensive, and his townhouse was purchased with a fraction of his mother's inheritance. 

After moving his things into Thorin's home, placing some framed family photographs, his books, clothes, and knickknacks in their proper places, he'd dropped Willoughby into the mix. Immediately, Thorin's sighthounds, Fili and Kili, stole her as their proper little sibling. The author's beloved dogs had soon become Bilbo's second and third pets. They were more like his nephews -- they got excited when he came over to spend the weekend, and brought him toys with excited yelps, requesting strokes behind the ears and to sleep in the big bed where the men did. The cat and the two dogs completed the picture-perfect image of a relationship he was looking for, and that no ex-boyfriend of Bilbo had fulfilled.

It was beautiful; the perfect home, the perfect man, books and animals, and houseplants surrounding his future. It was everything, and Thorin was pleased with his choice, and he was even happier to have Bilbo to snuggle the days away with. He was obsessed with his life; oh yes, he would be marrying this man. It was obvious by the love shared between the two that something was fated, and fate would have to be sealed with a ring. 

One day. Right now, it was sealed with syrupy kisses, breakfast in bed, and filling the tub with lavender salts, and grabbing the lube from the side table. 

Bilbo kissed Fili and Kili on their shaggy big heads as they made their way out of the door, whispering about how much he loved them and _be home soon, babies, I love you, bye-bye._ Thorin was taking interest lately in not driving, and so the smaller man fetched the keys and hopped into the passenger seat of the Jeep, clutching his lover's hand for reassurance. He'd never been one for driving; he did it when he had to, but Thorin's car was big and scary. He was feeling like a newbie again, but it was a good fear, knowing he was driving his one-day husband and that they were equals.

_Equals._

Remember what he said about Peter?

Hand in hand, the two men perused the bookstore. It was the biggest one in London; Waterstones in Piccadilly, built in 1797. It was eight floors of pure bliss -- if you needed any book in the universe, you'd find it there. Bilbo picked out a few books for reading over the winter break; David Hewson's _The Garden of Angels,_ Hilary Mantel's _Wolf Hall,_ and _Alias Grace,_ because he'd lost his classroom copy somewhere between the summer cleaning at school. Thorin held them for him while they shopped, excitedly stopping at their favorite bookshelf in the shop.

Oakenshield had his own shelf there, in the same section as Austen and Bronte and Dickens. Bilbo remembers looking at it ten years ago and counting in his head how much it was cost him to just _buy_ another Oakenshield novel; now, he was standing on the same carpet, in front of that collection of wonderful books, holding the hand of their author. It was the anniversary of his father's death, and he settled into a small fit of tears knowing that Bungo would love to hear about this special moment.

"Hey, it's okay," Thorin called out for him among the books that he was popping the covers of, signing his signature inside. Sometimes he did this at the little local shops, the ones who knew Oakenshield as well as they knew Shakespeare. It always reminded him of Bilbo approaching him on that July afternoon and filled his heart knowing for sure a fan would be overly splendid to find their newest escape signed by the writer himself. "Come here, dear heart, want to help me?"

Bilbo nodded and tucked his hands into his sweater, resting next to Thorin as he crouched on the floor with a permanent marker. The author cleaned his cheeks with a few soft kisses, causing him to chuckle and shed more. _God,_ he loved Thorin with every piece of his soul. "Could I see the newest copy of _Western Starlight_?"

"Absolutely!" Handing the novel over, Bilbo took a pen from his messenger bag and turned the front cover, smiling at the cursive _Oakenshield_ written under the title. Clicking the pen, the teacher penned in a little date at the end of the stamp -- _July 9th, 2021._ "You know," Thorin started as he smiled at the date, his hair pulled back in a bun (it was getting long as hell, longer than Bilbo's, and accentuated his dark goatee and blue eyes gorgeously). "I saw you in line before I came out and started signing, and my agent caught me staring. You were so cute."

"I have been staring at your picture in the back of this one for two decades." Taking out the old cover of his favorite book, he tapped the photograph on the back cover where the _Times_ reviews were. "I think I had it as my phone wallpaper once. How old were you when this was taken?"

"Um," Thorin glared over, squinting an eye. "Probably twenty-five. That was the first time I had ever put the contacts in because my father was starting to lose his cognition and he was afraid someone would find out about _him._ Like this man," He chuckled, motioning to it, "gives away addresses and commits theft."

"Just gives away free kisses and steals hearts," Bilbo smiled, flipping through the thick novel. The cover was older, of Willoughby and Eliot sitting in front of the lake. It was still his favorite version, though the new leather bounds released this year were impressive. "Ah, you signed this one with your name-"

"What?" Capping his marker, Thorin grabbed it from Bilbo's hands quickly and nosed into the cover. "Shit. Fuck, I didn't mean to do that."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," He reassured, knowing sadly how protective his lover was over his personal image. "Someone will assume it was returned like that, with someone's own name in it. It was an accident, love."

"No, no, we have to buy it," Thorin sighed, grabbing for his coat and Bilbo's books and hoisting him up with his palm. Instantly, he stuffed the correctly-signed novels back into the shelf. "I have something more important to protect now, more than my name. I wish we could keep it here, but-"

"What if we do?" Bilbo suggested quietly, eyeing the old copy. It wouldn't be the first to sell, and it may take a month or two before it was purchased by a curious fan for the name written inside. "I mean, sure, there's a risk in it, but I'm not afraid to be known as your partner."

"It's not that. It's... it's Dad still being alive," Thorin mumbled, clutching his hand tighter and pulling them to a quiet corridor, next to the abridged copies of Dickinson's poems. "I haven't told you this, but my father has... a history. It's part of the reason they now deem him insane."

"I understood he was losing his mind naturally." Bilbo raised an eyebrow, listening closely. They had always been straightforward with each other, and he knew Thorin had secrets up in that big head, but he figured they were private and would escape him one day. "Is this something we should be speaking about in public?"

"It's not... well, probably not. But I trust you," He smiled sideways, then pulled out the copy of _Western Starlight_ they were going to purchase. Pointing to Eliot Cramper, Thorin sighed softly. "Mom passed the year this book was released. It's difficult to pick apart because of the grief I put into it, and I think that's one of the reasons it got so popular. Anyway, her death was very sudden, with no real cause besides what they deemed was a stroke, or a heart attack, who knows. Dad came into a lot of money a few months before she passed. She wanted in on it; she was raising me and my sister and my little brother all by herself and it was a big sum, like-"

"You're telling me you think he was involved?!" He wasn't expecting that, not in someone so sweet and honest as Thorin. His lover was disciplined and stubborn and clever, and this discomfort he was hiding outraged him just as bad as it did Thorin. "Have you told the police this?"

"Oh, sure, this was twenty years ago," He shrugged a shoulder, keeping an eye out for inquisitive customers. "My sister is a lawyer. We've got the entire last name out of the situation; I go by my pen name, she has her married name. My brother is a touring musician with a rock band, and he has a stage name. It's just, well... the name Durin's got a bad reputation. If new evidence ever comes forward, I would rather they keep Dad where he is instead of sending him to court. The sin he's got himself is enough to kill him."

"Oh, goodness, doll," Brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, Bilbo swooped in for a gentle kiss. "I'm sorry. I didn't know the pen name meant _that much._ "

"It's unfortunate enough to say I'm afraid of crowds and that's why I keep my name a secret, but I'm pretty sure I would lose all of my readers if they dug deep enough." The two walked to the checkout, and Bilbo got a coffee while Thorin explained to the cashier that he wanted the Oakenshieldbooks reorganized when they got the chance. He prompted he was a book reviewer, and it made the teacher giggle at how preposterous their little secret was. 

He handed his lover the books when they returned to the car, and kissed his head long and hard, blue eyes shimmering in tears. Both of them had been crying more than men should today, but it was a day of healing. Bilbo was jovial Thorin had told him about the pen name, because everything was making sense now, and he was more-than-delighted to have the author by his side on his father's memorial anniversary. 

"Hey," Bilbo offered, raising an eyebrow after the heartfelt kiss. "How's about we get pizza and make a pillow fort when we get home? I think we both deserve a treat today."

***

"Hurry up!" A voice called from the living room, restlessly. "It's almost on, Bilbo!"

"I'm coming!" He called back, forgoing waiting to run down the staircase with the blanket. He and Thorin had been making their way through the returning episodes of Downtown Abbey since the replay was on again, and decided this evening that a blanket fort was in the itinerary. Thorin had moved the sofa with those strong muscles and reworked the armchairs so they could pin a blanket above, and then laid a nest of sheets and covers on the floor. Inside, the television showed the advertisement for the latest BBC period drama, and the teacher slipped into their little cave. "Wow. This looks..."

Thorin looked like the king of his television fort. On the floor, sitting on a throne of duvets and pillows, he had one dog on each knee and smiled wide upon seeing his significant other in his underwear. Kili's ears pricked and he moved quickly to snuggle up against Bilbo, his nose snuffing into the bowl of popcorn before his master smacked his rump and he fell to a faint pout in the kingdom. 

The sight hounds had scared him in the beginning. Fili, the biggest of the two brothers, was a golden-yellow color with shaggy curls. He was up to Bilbo's hip in height, but the more gentle of the two, and the leader of the pack. Kili was his little brother, from the same parents but younger in a year than the other. He was chocolate-brown and fearless, skinny in the belly and mighty in the legs. The only thing truly scary about the duo was how human they were -- they followed Thorin around the house, knew all the commands known to man and dog. They were genuine, high-grade gentle giants and Bilbo doubted he could hate any inch of their very being. He loved them deeply and snuggled Kili against him in a tight hug as Thorin tucked an arm around his waist and burrowed into the teacher's neck.

"Cozy," Bilbo ended his statement, eyes pricking with a tear as he fell into the show, his man by his side, two dogs protecting him, in the safety of Thorin's big, homey apartment. His home. Theirs. 

"Love you, dear heart," The author smiled, stealing a few pieces of popcorn. He dragged the blanket up higher on their shoulders, his brown hair tickling the skin of Bilbo's back. Fili snored like a troll next to them, and Bilbo adjusted his feet under the dog's belly, keeping them warm. 

Bilbo giggled. “I know. I love you more.”

"I love you more, anyways," He sighed again, sneaking a kiss. They curled up with each other, spooning on their floor, and snuggled like lovers. Above them, Thorin had strung fairy lights into the tent, so it appeared to be a starry night sky. After realizing the two weren't going to last longer through this episode, he shut the television off and hugged Bilbo by the belly to rub it gently, pressing pecks on his eyelids. "I love you, I love you, I love you. You are strong and passionate and beautiful and successful, and your dad would be so proud."

"He'd be calling you 'son' already, and showing you how to make the best pancakes known to man," Bilbo sniffled, crying openly now. The thing about Thorin was that he didn't push; most men would cuddle him closer, and tell him not to cry. But Thorin let him cry, and didn't tell him contrarily to stop. Just that it was okay to cry. "I miss him so much. But he was in so much... so much p-pain," He choked, burrowing into the author's broad chest, his nose finding safety in the warm curls of hair. "Are you going to do something about your dad?"

Thorin paused and then shook his head. "No. He's very sick. It would just trouble him more to write a will, to have to settle things... his time will come." The dogs crawled up to lay on the sofa above the two men, their heads resting close to protect their masters. It was dark in their little kingdom, and the air's lightness had returned. The author hushed Bilbo's soft cries and held him tighter. "Shh. Go to sleep, it's late."

"I do not know what I would do without you," He admitted, lip trembling. "I love you so much."

"Sleep knowing I feel the same way about you, Bilbo." Kissing his head, Thorin requested sleep and closed his eyes, burrowing into golden curls. "I love you more than I can make words for. Sweet dreams, dear heart."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo spend a very merry Christmas day together. 
> 
> Please don't cry at the end. 
> 
> I love you guys.

A few days following the memorial of Bungo Baggins, the first snowfall hit London. The white flakes trickled down and stuck to the streets and buildings, a soft blanket coating the morning businessmen's coats as they flew from the subway tunnels. It was a beautiful sight and it caused enough ruckus to close Bilbo's school, the last day before winter break deemed a snow day for all. Fili and Kili yelped in excitement as the cold piles hit their paws when Thorin took them downstairs to pee, and they requested to play in the flakes as their master left them to grab hot chocolate from the corner shop. 

The teacher was finishing grading his assignments in the study when Thorin returned, kissing him on his curls and depositing a cup of warm hot chocolate next to him on the desk. "It's quite a chilly one out there, did you want me to make a fire?"

Bilbo nodded excitedly. "That would be excellent! We can have a day in to wrap presents and set up the Christmas tree. Does your family have any special traditions we should honor?"

Thorin pursed his lips, falling into the armchair next to the desk. His home office was where he got most of his writing done, and his partner had quickly adopted it to be his favorite room in the house. The walls were filled with bookcases overflowing with books, and the floor was carpeted unlike the rest of the house. It was warm and had a grand fireplace, two dog beds, and a wide window filled with hanging leafy plants. It was peaceful and serene; all the comforts of feeling at home he missed most about his old flat, this made up for a thousand times over. 

"Not exactly. Since I'm the eldest, I host Christmas day every year. It will just be my sister and her husband, my brother and some of our cousins here. We usually just drink cognac and complain, because we're Durin's. Is there anyone you would like to invite, dear heart?" He wondered, flipping through his planner to the 25th of December, a week away. "Our Christmas is your Christmas, of course."

Bilbo thought for a moment. Since his mother had passed, Christmas had been spent at his cousin Primula's home in the countryside, with her husband, baby son, and some of their distant relatives. Since they lived so far out and he now had duty spending the holidays with his significant other (a now-more exciting event than sitting around the tree and complaining about television shows and Baggins' who were getting married to a sleazy someone else), Bilbo decided he'd stay here and take up his duty as the future married husband of Thorin Durin. 

Besides, he had already met Thorin's siblings. They adored him -- his sister, Dis, was a fireball and matched Bilbo in terms of being both grumpy and rational, and difficult to prove wrong. She was beautiful, with long dark hair like her brother and the same blue eyes; they looked like twins in good lighting, and it made him feel butterflies in his belly knowing that one day, they would be family. Frerin was young and sparky, and a troublemaker. He was a touring rock musician with wild, untamed blond hair, blue eyes, and a mouth of pure childish merriment. Frerin Durin was precious in a way that Bilbo felt he needed to protect; Thorin did the same, and the three of them were a tight-knit, well-versed little family of siblings. 

"Oh, no, that's quite alright. I'll send some cards out," He shrugged, imagining with a dirty grin how angry Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would be when she heard Bilbo was spending Christmas in London with another man, and not his family. "Since my parents passed, Christmas has been another day to miss them. I would love to spend the holidays here, with you and your family. If you want me to."

"I would love nothing more!" Thorin beamed wide, hugging his boyfriend tightly. They both chuckled happily, and Bilbo dropped his papers to be swept into a long, seasoned kiss. "I'll make it special. And everyone absolutely adores you; my family, besides Dad, they all know about us living together now and they cannot wait to see you again. It will be fun and full of laughter, I promise."

The following days were spent in happy cheer; it was a merry time of year and Thorin and Bilbo were feeling the impact of the season. They set up the tree and strung it with lights, garland, and ornaments, and even made a little ornament with both of their names signed in it, with  _ Durin's First Christmas  _ engraved in the clay heart. Fili and Kili wore coats and boots and the four of them bundled up and walked Hyde Park in the snow, with hot tea and candy canes and holiday music playing from the gazebo. They shopped together and apart and filled the living room of their home with sparkling gifts, and strung the staircase with more lights and decorations necessary. More kisses than necessary were also passed. 

On Christmas Eve, the boys decided to retain one of Bilbo's childhood traditions and lit the staircase and sidewalk to their flat with luminaries. The children from the same building watched in delight as they lit the candles inside and moved their eyes to the sky, knowing it would brighten the way for Santa Claus when he arrived with gifts at midnight. They slipped into bed in holiday pajamas and made sparkling love to one another, then curled in the blankets with their dogs and Willoughby between them. The clock ticked forward as they waited for Christmas morning, smiles on their lips as they snored. The light changed and soon it was morning, and the small family celebrated their own Christmas Day before the guests arrived.

Bilbo made cinnamon rolls and homemade peppermint hot chocolate and they had breakfast together on the floor in front of the tree. Fili, Kili, and Willoughby got extra treats and opened their presents up with their masters ate; the dogs were gifted with more squeaky toys and bones than they needed, matching sweater vests with  _ Durin  _ sewed into the flannel, and fluffy blankets for their beds. The cat got a new tower for the study window and jingly toys and catnip, and she settled on her new perch and watched the snow while Bilbo and Thorin exchanged their own gifts with one another. 

"The first gift I want to give you is something you gave to me some months ago," Bilbo grinned like Thorin was the most precious diamond in the world, and held out a box that was unwrapped. "That gift is my love. You are amazing; you have changed my life for the past decade and now that I get to know you, love  _ you,  _ Thorin Durin, I want to promise to do so for as long as we are living on this Earth."

Thorin blinked away tears and retrieved a woven leather bracelet from the box, engraved with a 'B' in the front. Around the laces were green and blue stones, and it ended with an infinity symbol as the bracelet fit around his thick wrist. He held it adjacent to his heart and sniffled. "Bilbo..."

"Put it on!" The English teacher motioned, crawling over on his knees to tie the bracelet comfortably around his wrist. It was a perfect fit; Bilbo pressed endearments to it and then to Thorin's lips, his expression never more animated. "Do you like it?"

" _ Excuse me? _ I love it," The taller man stared down at his hand and matched the blue of the shining stones with his watery eyes. "It's beautiful! It's so __ stunning! Thank you! I'll never take it off as long as I'm living." Sweeping him in for a harder kiss, Thorin brought his partner into his lap and cuddled him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you infinitely, dear heart. I do. I really do."

"It's a bond bracelet," He explained, sitting on the taller man's lap with his arms encircled around his waist. Bilbo nuzzled close; Thorin was like a rolling fire, he was so warm to the touch. Pulling out his phone, he opened an application and tapped his finger twice to the screen. A tiny jolt, like a comforting vibration, was felt against Thorin's wrist. He paused, his mouth making a big 'o'. "Did you feel it?'

"Yes, I did!" He gaped, grinning like a madman as Bilbo drew a heart symbol on his screen, and the little vibrations represented the shape. "That's amazing! I've never owned anything more extraordinary!"

"I thought it might help with your anxiety when you're in public, like at your book signings or in the office writing. You respond to touch better than I do; I can be on my phone at school and let you know I'm here, so you won't feel lonely."

"Oh my god," Thorin choked, wiping his eyes. "Oh Bilbo, darling..."

Bilbo showed his teeth in a big smile and tugged him down by his long locks for another kiss. "Love you, you big twat. Merry Christmas."

Thorin was an inadequate wrapper, they found out sooner or later. He had Bilbo's gifts dressed up with bows and ribbon regardless, showing them off like he'd carved a sword out of a rock. "Open this one first," He said, pointing to the silver present with a green bow. He couldn't hold his laughter when Bilbo frowned and rolled his eyes. "Hehe..."

"God, I hate you," The brunette snorted, revealing a massive bottle of strawberry-scented lubricant. Thorin was constantly joking with him that he never used enough, that he wasn't as thorough as he needed... this would solve their problem, wouldn't it? "Thanks, asshole."

"My ass says you're welcome," He grinned, blowing him a kiss and giggling. Bilbo shot him a death stare and reached for the second in line, shaking it near his ear. The inside was hollow, and flakey, like... "Silver needle tea!"

"Oh, yes! That's excellent!" A large canister of tea was now his, the biggest and most expensive Thorin could find imported from the fine Chinese tea markets. He sniffed the inside, and his eyes rolled back in heavenly pleasure. "Thank you so much, babe! That's so thoughtful, you remembered when I spilled the last of my silver needle over the phone."

"I remember everything you scold me about," He chuckled, pointing to yet another gift. "Sorry, not everything is as grand as your gift to me. I'm not as good as giving as I am receiving."

"YOU ARE AWFUL!" Bilbo yelled out in a blaring laugh, losing his footing as he tried to knock his partner down onto the rug. Thorin was losing his brains laughing, his breath hitching, tears running down his cheeks. They wrestled, arms and legs and mouths, both giggling madly. "Tell me again why I'm marrying you?"

"You're what?" Thorin pulled Bilbo off, sitting him up on the floor. His blue eyes grew, and he cocked his head. "How did you find out?"

"I was just joking, I- EXCUSE ME?" Bilbo turned as white as a sheet, his breath shutting down. Everything grew tranquil, and he hesitated to shed a single tear from the laughter they had been sharing. 

The author was blushing hard when he got down onto his knee, pulling a little box out of the back of his pajama bottoms. He brushed away the hair that fell in front of his face and opened the little box. Inside was a stunning silver ring, an engagement band. He cleared his throat, and battled the debate that he should wait, he should wait, he should have waited-

"Will you marry me, Bilbo Baggins?" He proposed quietly, motioning down to the ring. Bilbo screamed bloody murder, his face growing the size of the autumn moon. Fili and Kili raised their heads from their toys and somewhere in the back of his subconscious, Bilbo could see Eliot Cramper crouched on one knee, old but still handsome, in front of a lake, with Willoughby Greenhold in a yellow spring dress... 

_ "Willoughby, Miss Greenhold," Eliot began, bringing the woman's hand down to his lips. He kissed it tenderly, as if a moth's wing had touched her skin, and glanced up. Willoughby's eyes were watery, but she did not cry. She did not glance back at the estate, where she knew her father and mother would be angry. Instead, she looked down at Eliot, who was growing in height and looks but none so growing out of his incredible shyness. "Will you marry me, Miss Greenhold? I love you, I do." _

"D-Dear heart?" The author piped in quietly as his partner was remembering the scene in the book; oh, right, this was the man who wrote that scene! And he was... he was proposing? 

Why, this is the exact man who called him out on the day they met, for asking about his precious story, was proposing to him. The same man who apologized for those words every morning, every evening, used his tongue and his throat and made love with the apology, calling him lovely names, giving him lovely gifts. Bilbo knew he'd loved him from the minute those words even  _ made  _ it out of his mouth, at the bookshop, holding those chocolates and his book and watching Thorin glare up at him like he was... like he was in love. From the first perception, but Bilbo was a literature instructor, so he'd rather use the word fated, or predestined. 

Who was he kidding? Mister Thorin Durin Oakenshield, the author of the book that he brought with him when he was admitted to the hospital after Peter deemed love meant breaking his wrist on accident, a mishap caused by the other's colossal desires of wild bedroom activity, was asking to marry him, to share the rest of his life with him. The man who he loved, loved nothing more in the universe, wanted to be his husband, just because. Not because they liked the same books, had the same concerns and personal gains and anxieties, the same looks in their eyes when they made love, or simply because Bilbo was a  _ fan  _ of his work, but because he loved him. 

And Bilbo, his poor heart threatening to break out of its cage of bone and muscle and onto the floor, finally knew why Eliot never gave up, never let Willoughby go even when he was married with three children in a gorgeous house with money in the bank and a future to live in... 

He finally knew the reason why Thorin wrote  _ Midnight Sky  _ in the first place. He did not care for a clear reason, or for things better than it, or for money, fame, affection, or stability, but just for love. Love triumphed, as all of the books said, and now it was his own little tale to tell. 

The tale of the author and the academic, the teacher of the writer, the writer of the taught, the hopeful and the hopeless and the shallow and the deep. The shadow in the dark, the light in the tunnel. The wishing, the loving, the yearning. The  _ loving. _

God, he loved Oakenshield.

Bilbo ultimately let the ring slip onto his finger; a simple, thin silver band, nothing lovelier in the world except the man in front of him on one knee.

"H-Hello?" Thorin chimed again, tears running down his cheeks.

"WILL I MARRY YOU?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?! YES!" He about lost his footing and dove in for the hug, clutching hard to Thorin's chest, feeling his own heavily beating heart match the anxiety his now-fiancé was undergoing. "YES! Yes yes yes yes yes yes, yes, I will. Oh my fucking god, Thorin, yes, oh Jesus-"

"That is so good to hear," The writer sighed in happy relief, holding him tightly, pressing kisses at the soft spot behind his ear. Bilbo bawled, staining the stupid Christmas-themed pajama shirt Thorin was wearing, tiring his eyes out and crying some more, all while Thorin beamed, peered down at him, murmured about adoring him so. "Merry Christmas, my dear."

"H-Holy shit, Thorin," Bilbo managed to croak out, rolling his fists in Thorin's shirt where it wasn't wet. He sniffled long and hard, taking deep puffs of air, trying to settle down until he stared down at his finger and saw the ring again. Once again, a new stream of tears fell from his eyes, and Thorin laughed and kissed his ring finger pleasantly. "M-Married to you?"

"Of course, dear heart," He hummed softly, rocking his little partner back and forth in his arms. "I don't say I love you every two minutes of every day just because I like to hear myself talk. You are going to be a Durin."

"Ohhhh my god. Okay. Good. Oh god," He belted, rolling out of the hug and sitting down on the rug. He grasped his own rosy cheeks, trying to break the smile. "Nope, fuck, oh my god. I will not be able to get over the fact that you just asked me to marry you." Bilbo rolled his tongue and tested his own words, the new name he would soon have legally attached to his soul. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to  _ pause,  _ I just... this... Bilbo  _ Durin.  _ I love it. The name, all of it. Married to you. Mine. My Thorin."

"You're in for the whole shebang, dear heart. You know I always have been yours, even before we met in person. I was just waiting, and you were abiding, and finally, that bond succeeded. I wrote you that sonnet once. I think I recall it mentioned something about wanting to make you my husband one day," The brunette chuckled, walking to the study quickly before returning with a framed photo, an original draft of the awful poem he had written the first day he'd met Bilbo. However, at the bottom of the beautiful, professionally framed piece was a cursive date --  _ July 9, 2021 _ . "This is yours to engrave in your mind forever now, future hubby. I love you, if you didn't know."

"That is going right above our bed," Smiling to himself, Bilbo stood and hugged Thorin properly, more like friends than spouses. An honest, loving, thoughtful embrace, enough to make their romp in the sheets the evening before seem lewd and forbidden. Bilbo was still in hysteria, otherwise, he would have pulled Thorin's trousers down and proved his meriting. He concluded it instead with a fleeting kiss and stroked the new ring on his finger softly. "Love you more, flesh and blood and bone. Merry Christmas. I cannot wait to spend forever with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehehe... AND THEN THEY WERE ENGAGED!
> 
> Please note I seriously am trying to not make this as fluffy as it is... but my babies are soft and I can't help it. Eek! I love you guys, my readers, y'all are the best! *insert thousands of heart emojis*
> 
> As promised, I recorded a bookshelf tour of my little book collection! It can be found here for you guys. 
> 
> https://youtu.be/tt6ljkgTBFc


End file.
